***
In the two years Chip that had been a resident of Turners Bend, the main street of town had begun to come back to life. Out of Business signs were slowly being replaced with Open for Business signs. It had started with last year’s renovation of the Bijou Theater. Since then, and much to Chip’s pleasure, a tiny new and used book store opened. It was run by the same owner as The Book Shoppe in Boone. The Cinnamon Bun Café continued to thrive and was Chip’s favorite place for home cooked food served with a dollop of town gossip.
“Lord,” said Bernice, as she looked up when the café’s door chimes jingled. “You look like you tangled with a hay baler.”
“Hi Bernice. Just a little mishap up in Minneapolis. I brought you some apples. Figured you could make a pie or two.” He handed the grocery bag over the counter and sat on one of the red Naugahyde-covered stools.
“Thanks Chip. I’ve got a new donut for you to try. A Maple Bacon Bismarck.” She entered the kitchen and returned with a huge donut loaded with maple frosting and topped with two strips of crisp bacon.
Chip took a bite, then another. “Bernice, I thought your cinnamon and caramel rolls couldn’t be beat, but this is nirvana.”
“I don’t know what nirvana is, but I can tell you these little porkers have been selling like hot cakes. I’m getting ideas for new treats from the folks at the Dutch Oven Bakery over in Boone.”
Chip turned as he heard the door open and Turners Bend’s police chief, Walter Fredrickson, sauntered in and looked around. The chief spotted Chip and sat down at the counter next to him. He looked at Chip’s donut and said, “Bernice, give me one of those things and a cup of coffee, please.”
He turned to Chip. “Well, I hear you had an eventful trip to the Twin Cities. I got a call from some detective named Franco. He spun me quite a tale and asked me to keep an eye on you. Seemed like a decent guy.”
“Yes, he is. He reminds me a lot of one of my characters, Mike Frisco. Patrick Finnegan’s murder is a puzzler, but I’m confident Franco will find the perp.”
“You think someone’s gunning for you, too?” said Fredrickson as he pulled the bacon off his Bismarck and munched on it.
“Nah, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” answered Chip. That’s the story I’m sticking with for now, Chip said to himself, wanting to believe it was truly the case.
“I don’t know about that. I think there’s more to it than a drive-by shooting.” The chief unsnapped his shirt pocket, removed a folded piece of paper and opened it. He showed it to Chip. “This is a printout from a security camera at the National Car Rental counter at the airport in Minneapolis. He’s the dude who returned a black Escalade, about 45 minutes after your parking ramp encounter. I just got it from Franco. Name on the rental was Gomez. He used an international driver’s license. You know him?”
Chip looked at the grainy photo of a man with a mustache wearing a baseball cap and wrap-around sunglasses. “Doesn’t look familiar to me. Guess I don’t have to keep an eye out for an Escalade anymore; do I?”
“Nonetheless Chip, be cautious and call me if you notice anything unusual. I’ll send out an APB to local law enforcement and the Iowa State Patrol.”
The chief returned the printout to his pocket. “Right now I’ve got a couple of cows missing…that’s about as much excitement as I want in this town. Or ever again, to be honest.”
Being vigilant in Turners Bend seemed unnecessary to Chip. He knew almost everyone and a stranger in town would stick out like a corn stalk in a melon patch. He lulled himself into a cocoon of small-community safety topped with a generous portion of denial that anyone could really be gunning for him.
***
Runt was asleep on the sidewalk outside the café where Chip had tied him to a lamp post. Chip thought Runt might enjoy a swim in Beaver Creek. And, maybe some time musing by the water would alleviate the nagging itch in his own head…the one that wondered if he truly was in some kind of danger.
The dog woke, jumped into the car and stuck his head out the opened window.
When Chip hit a long stretch of two-lane highway with no one ahead of him, he said, “Let’s open this baby up, Runt, and see what she’ll do.” He increased his speed, watching the digital readout rise past eighty miles per hour. He looked off in the distance at an approaching semi-truck. When the semi was close enough that he could hear the roar of it’s diesel engine, he slowed and edged over to the right to give it plenty of room. He hated the feeling of being sucked toward a semi as it passed.
He saw a flash of color on his right. He glanced over to the shoulder and saw a red Suburban alongside his car. He hadn’t been paying attention to his rearview mirrors and hadn’t noticed the vehicle behind him. It rammed into him; he fought to gain control of the car and reduce his speed further.
The large SUV rammed him again, this time the force sent him across the road and into the path of the oncoming semi. He tromped down on the accelerator and cleared the semi by just feet, the blast of the truck’s horn reverberating through his head, adrenaline pumping through his body. Struggling with the wheel and unable to stop his vehicle, he flew through a guardrail and into a ditch, missing a utility pole by inches.
He was shaken and dazed; his heart was racing but his seatbelt kept him in place and the airbag exploded. The front of his car was caved in and smoke was rising from under the hood.
He turned to check on Runt, feeling a searing pain in his neck. He cried out in anguish, “Runt.” The dog turned his head toward Chip and whimpered. Chip heard the semi’s airbrakes bring the truck to a stop and a man’s voice yelling. His vision dimmed, then darkness.
***
Two days after the highway accident Chip sat in the kitchen. He did not want to think about the crash or about Jane at the animal hospital in Ames where she was still attempting to mend Runt’s broken body. He did not want to think about the driver of the red SUV who sped off or about his own foolishness at refusing to face reality.
That was no accident; someone wants to harm me, someone wants me dead. It must have been the same Suburban that followed me down 35W. Is it the mysterious Gomez
, and if so, why is he after me?
Chapter Ten
Head Shot
St. Paul, MN
Late October
JOHN GOODMAN WOKE up to an empty bed several hours after he had returned home from performing surgery on Rick Wilson. The sunlight curled around the edges of their room-darkening shades. He snatched his cell phone off the nightstand to see the time…1:12 p.m. He blinked a few times and rubbed the sleep out his eyes.
He reached over and switched on the lamp on his side of the bed. Propped against his stack of medical journals and publications, he found her note, written on the back side of the one he had written the previous evening. It said,
John
Looks like your head trauma case just became my case with Frisco. Sorry to screw up what's left of our Sunday...I will try to be home in time for a late dinner.
Love, Jo
P. S. And thanks for asking!
Disappointment was replaced with happiness as he read the last line. He lay back on the bed, and allowed himself a moment to enjoy the thought of spending the rest of their crazy, busy lives together.
John realized he hadn’t made the most romantic of proposals to Jo. There wasn’t a ring – yet – and he hadn’t gotten down on one knee, but the excitement he had seen in her eyes when she had said yes told him none of that mattered.
After years of being a confirmed bachelor at the ripe old age of thirty-six, he never thought he’d get married. His grandmother had never given up, though. He made a mental note to call her tonight and pass on their news. He knew she’d be over the moon, probably pushing next for great-grandchildren.
He sighed, and pushed back any more thoughts of his future with Jo. It was time to follow up on his patient’s progress. Reaching for his phone, he padded down to the kitchen and started the coffee maker. Caddy follow
ed behind him, nails clicking on the tile floor. He reached down to give her a quick, absent-minded ear scratch. While he waited for the coffee to brew, he dialed the number for the intensive care unit at the hospital.
When one of the intensive care nurses he worked with frequently answered, he said, “Hey, Cindy. Looking for an update on Rick Wilson.”
He could hear the click of her keyboard as she pulled up his patient’s file. “Well, Dr. Goodman, all I can say is that you must have done a hell of a job last night. Can’t believe that kid made it. I just checked his stats myself. His BP is down to 135, heart rate is at 90, temp is slightly elevated to 100.1, and respiratory rate is 20.”
John felt he had been holding his breath as she rattled off Rick Wilson’s stats. He blew out a puff of air. “And how about the ICP?”
“I saved the best for last. The intracranial pressure is down to 14. Way to go, Doc.”
The last vestiges of fatigue melted away and he let out a small whoop. “Now that’s a step in the right direction. I’ll be heading down soon to check on him. Thanks, Cindy.”
He poured himself a cup of coffee, humming a few notes from “The LocoMotion”. He pictured Jo singing on the ladder last night and couldn’t suppress a grin.
***
After Jo and Frisco left Mazlo’s house, they sat in the detective’s car. Jo held up the injunction they had received from the adjunct professor. “This is great, but a copy of the documentary would be more helpful.”
The detective nodded. “Agreed. Why don’t I call Caroline Wilson and see if she knows if Rick was working with another student on his movie.”
The detective pulled out his cell phone and dialed. After a moment, he said, “Mrs. Wilson. This is detective Mike Frisco. Look, sorry to bother you again, but do you happen to know if Rick was working with anyone else on his fracking documentary?”
Jo could hear snatches of the woman’s voice come through Frisco’s cell phone. “…would be Billy…address. Hang on…”
Frisco pulled out his notebook, and scribbled down a name and address. Into the phone, he said, “Thanks for the info. We’ll be in touch.”
As soon as he disconnected the call, he handed the paper to Jo. She pulled up the GPS system in Frisco’s car and punched in the address for Billy MacGregor.
Frisco summarized his discussion. “The mother said Billy and Rick grew up together. He’s not a student at the U, just helping him out with the project. Probably why Mazlo didn’t know about him.”
The detective put the car in drive. As Frisco wound through the streets, he glanced at Jo. “So, are you buying that Mazlo doesn’t have a copy of Rick Wilson’s project? Seems like he would have demanded to see it the minute that lawsuit from Wellborne Industries hit their desks.”
Jo shrugged her shoulders. “You could be right, but why would Mazlo lie about it? Maybe the kid was a perfectionist and didn’t want his advisor to see it until the final edits. Some people are just that way.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I sure as hell wish we could get our hands on a copy of that video, though.”
“Let’s hope MacGregor has one.”
The female voice on the GPS system directed Frisco to turn east on University Avenue, as they headed towards the area known as Frogtown. The avenue was dotted with restaurants serving various Asian and Mexican cuisines.
Jo realized she was suddenly famished. “What do you say we stop for a bite to eat after we’re done talking to MacGregor?”
Frisco smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”
The GPS directed them to make one last turn. Jo knew this part of town had a rough reputation and she saw many houses with boarded windows, faded foreclosure signs flapping in the breeze.
They stopped in front of a hunter green clapboard house. Several of the shutters were missing and two more hung askew. Frisco said, “Looks like a crack house. Think he really lives here?”
As Jo opened the car door, she said, “Well, this is the address Rick’s mother gave us. Let’s give it a go.”
Frisco followed her up the cracked sidewalk. Walking carefully onto steps that didn’t look like they would hold her weight, she crossed the small porch area and rang the doorbell.
After a few moments of silence, Jo knocked and called out, “Mr. MacGregor. I’m Special FBI Agent Jo Schwann. I’m here with Detective Mike Frisco of the St. Paul police department. Could we have a word with you?”
When there was still no answer, Frisco said, “Let me go check around back. I’ll see if there is another door.”
Jo peeked into windows that were surprisingly clean given the shabbiness of the house, but couldn’t detect any movement in the room. Frisco came back a moment later. “Place looks deserted.”
“I’ll try his cell.”
Jo punched in the phone number they had acquired from Rick Wilson’s mother. As she waited for the call to connect, she looked around the porch of the house. An old sofa moldered next to the front door. On the floor in front of the sofa was an old rusty coffee can, full of cigarette butts.
As she ended the call, she looked across the way to the adjacent house and saw a frail, elderly woman with faded denim jeans and an oversized man’s coat shake out a rug over the railing of the porch.
Before the woman could re-enter her house, Jo called out, “Excuse me ma’am. Do you know the people who live here?”
The woman shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Who’s asking?”
Jo stepped off the porch of Billy’s house and began walking toward the woman. “My name is Special Agent Jo Schwann. I’m with the FBI.” She fished out her badge and held it out for the woman to see. “This is Detective Mike Frisco. We’re looking for Billy MacGregor. Do you know where we might find him?”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “Billy’s a good kid, unlike most of the scum that lives around here these days. Always willing to give me a hand. Whatcha want him for?”
Frisco spoke up. “We just want to ask him some questions about a friend of his. He’s not in any trouble.”
She seemed to consider this for a moment. Finally, she said, “Well, I ain’t seen him around for the last day or two.” She paused, as if trying to recall the last time she had seen him. “He carried up some boxes from my basement a couple of days ago. Seemed kinda jumpy and distracted, now that I think about it. I asked him if anything was the matter, but he told me he was fine. Didn’t really believe him, but he clammed up after that.”
The old woman frowned, and the lines around her mouth deepened. “You sure he’s okay?”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Jo assured her. “Does he have any roommates we could talk to? Seems like a big place, just for one kid.”
“Yeah, but they’re in some kinda alternative rock band. Billy says they’re on the road a lot of the time, so I doubt you’d catch them.”
Jo pulled out one of her business cards, and handed it to the woman. “Would you please call us if you see Billy?”
The old woman stared down at Jo’s card and then looked up into her face. “Will do. If you find him first, tell him Sue was worried about him, will you?”
Sue turned and entered her house, the rug forgotten on the porch.
Frisco watched her retreating figure. “Hope we didn’t just lie to that little old lady about MacGregor being okay. Guess you didn’t catch him on his cell?”
Jo shook her head. “He didn’t even have a voice mailbox set up, so I couldn’t leave a message. I’ll send a text message, but I’m not holding my breath that we’ll hear back from him. Got any bright ideas?”
Frisco smiled. “Well, you did mention something about grabbing a bite to eat. I always think better on a full stomach.”
***
John arrived at the hospital and went down the hall to Rick Wilson’s room. Caroline Wilson was slumped in the chair pulled up alongside the bed. Her right hand rested on top of her son’s and her head lolled back. John studied her sleeping form for a moment, and then gently shook her shoulder. “Ms. Wilson?�
�
She jerked up in her seat and stared up at him, as if she wasn’t sure where she was or why she was there. John saw recognition in her eyes as she pushed back the grogginess. Her voice was hoarse when she said, “Doctor Goodman.” She turned her gaze to her son. “How is he? He made it through the night.”
John smiled. “It’s an excellent sign. His vitals have improved, particularly the intracranial pressure. I’m very encouraged.” He studied her face as he explained her son’s current situation in greater detail. There were dark purple smudges beneath her reddened eyes. It looked as if she hadn’t slept more than a few minutes the whole night.
When he had finished describing his patient’s progress, John said, “How are you holding up? Why don’t you head home for a bit and try to catch up on some rest. We’ll call you if there is any change in his condition.”
She yawned. “No, I’m ok. I want to be here when he wakes up.”
John said, “It may be quite some time before that happens. He’s going to need you at your best. I know this is hard, but you need to take good care of yourself, as well.”
John could see the struggle on her face. She looked back at her son again. “Well, if you are sure…they’ll call me right away? I’ll be quick. Just long enough to grab some clean clothes and maybe a short nap.”
He patted her arm. “I promise. You will hear from us if anything changes.”
Caroline Wilson leaned over her son’s bed and kissed him gently on the forehead. When she passed by John, he could see the tears threatening to spill over. “He’s a good boy. Please, take care of him.”
“Will do. Get some rest.”
After she had gone, John double-checked Rick’s vitals and scribbled down some adjustments to the dosage of medications. Just as he was finishing, he heard shouting coming from down the hall.
“Get outta my way. I’m telling you, I’ve got to see Rick.”
Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder Page 6